i've got a cold heart, cold hands
by The Adamant Daughter
Summary: A treaty to end a war, a marriage to honor it. A Water Tribe princess betrothed to a Fire Nation prince. A fragile peace held together by a distant hope for love. For Zutara Month 2017, using select prompts. [ My first attempt at an arranged marriage au with a language barrier ]


_Written for Zutara Month 2017 - Day 1: Amongst the Fire Lilies_  
 _...in which, Katara learns she's to marry the Fire Prince and likens herself a slab of meat._

* * *

"You have no choice in the matter, Katara. This treaty was—"

"—this treaty was written without any input from those it directly affects!"

Blue eyes hone in on the chieftain, with enough fire in them to burn a city, pushing Hakoda to sigh audibly.

"I know you're angry."

"Am I?" Sarcasm leaks from every pore. She stands up abruptly, fists clenched and jaw grinding. Her tea freezes, shattering the cup. "What was your first clue, Dad?"

There's a murmur from the dozen old men, but her father should count himself lucky that standing and shouting is all she's done. If it weren't for the elders gathered in the lodge, she would've frozen him to the ceiling.

"You can't make me do this. I will not do this!"

Hakoda's gaze darkens. "I can, Katara. And I will."

His tone is final. Fighting him now would mean losing her people, losing her place in this tribe. Tears prick at her eyes.

"Dad, please. I met him once, and we were only kids."

"Then you'll have lots of catching up to do." her father says.

He stands with her, on the opposite end of the lodge's long, wooden table. Parchment rustles as he binds the scroll. "Prince Zuko will be arriving with Fire Lord Iroh in a month's time, and when he does, Katara, and you will treat him with every ounce of honor your future husband deserves."

Cracks spread across the ice-hewn walls as she storms out.

* * *

Snow whips around her. A storm rolled in after the gathering, which Katara thinks is fitting.

She stands in it, nestled deep in her blue furs, staring at the sky. The black clouds match the sorrow in her soul. The wind chafes at the landscape like her heart chafes in her chest.

Katara wants to rip it out. She wants to watch as blood stains the white drifts, and the muscle slowly dies, never again thundering inside her ribs.

She knows what her mother would say, though. She's being dramatic. She needs to be brave.

But, brave is sending Zuko away. Brave is disobeying her father's commands. Brave is not caring, not crying, not heeding this gut-wrenching pain.

Tears freeze to her cheeks as they fall.

She's not brave, not at all.

Katara searches through her twenty-one years of experience, trying to find the reason she's being so weak.

* * *

In the weeks preceding the Prince's arrival, Katara begins receiving gifts— trinkets and jewelry, trunks of clothing she could never wear in the South. It's all silks and linens, so fine and airy, Katara wonders how the garments will cover anything more than her indecent bits.

At Gran-Gran's encouragement, Katara tries on a handful of outfits. She freezes a pane of water and stands before it, her fingers running up the slit in her skirt and across her bare stomach. The one-shoulder top accentuates her breasts. The red fabric makes her skin look like chocolate.

Her grandmother says she's beautiful, but Katara shivers, despite the glowing fire in the hut. She takes the garment off, wondering if Zuko will like it.

The presents of clothing dwindle, and the trade ships unload crates of exotic teas and extravagant scrolls. The parchments are filled with languages Katara can't understand. Pakku, being more widely traveled than any other elder in her tribe, translates a chosen story every night.

Dragons and spirits dance in her dreams; when Katara wakes, warming her hands with a cup of sweet, rose tea, she hopes Zuko likes to read.

Sooner than she wants, Katara is no longer counting weeks. The final days slip by, and she's left with a single sleep between herself and her new life.

Pakku finishes Love Amongst the Dragons. Katara worries that she should've struggled through the words herself; the old master could've helped.

Gran-Gran pours the last of the rose tea. Katara fights a flare of nausea when she breaths in the steam. Her knowledge extends to Southern food, hearty stews and bold brews; she never learned what her husband will eat.

Princess Yue writes her. Katara skims the details, wondering what her own duties will be in this marriage to the Fire Prince. Will she face patriarchal restrictions like those of the Northern tribe? Will she be trapped to a wing, to a room, to a bed, required to bear her husband children and keep a tidy house? Or will she be free to speak up, talk back, _waterbend?_

A sliver of fear makes her entire being shake. How much of herself will she lose becoming this man's wife? She leaves her bed and stomps from the hut without a coat, Pakku shouting after her.

Katara doesn't listen. She walks until she's out of the village lights, in a moonlit valley of snow.

Then, she wreaks havoc upon the ice.

* * *

The morning came too bright and too quick, but she only has herself to blame for the dark circles beneath her eyes. She disguised it with kohl on her lids and lashes, rouge on her cheeks and lips. After a pot of Pakku's tea, she was left with shaking hands, but a surge of energy carried her out to the docks.

Surrounded by dozens of her tribesmen, Katara tries to burn off the caffeine by pacing up and down the wooden planks. Snow falls softly around her. It settles on her blue furs and adorns her hair— she's done her very best with it all.

Halting, Katara peers over the dock's edge. The sapphire blue shows her wavering reflection: the soft waves and braids she's carefully arranged around her face, the beads she's woven into her dark locks, the intricate, silver threading on her cape.

She plucks at the fur-lined hood, making faces at herself in the water. She tries aloof, happy, poised. All she looks is scared; it's in her eyes and she can't hide it. Katara prays the firebender won't recognize it.

"Granddaughter."

Her grandparents appear beside her. Katara huffs and turns away from the waves.

"Is it too late to run?"

Pakku winks, "I might be old, but I can create quite the diversion."

"And I know all about running out of town on my betrothed," Kanna adds, her eyes glistening.

Gentle laughs dance across the snow, then die. They know she's nervous; they are, too. They practically raised her. Whatever pain her heart holds must be reflected in their own chests.

She spots tears on Pakku's lashes. Gran-Gran wipes her nose surreptitiously. The resignation Katara harbors morphs to anger.

"They can't do this! They act like I'm a slab of meat at the market, like I'm worth no more than twenty copper pieces!" she shouts, balling her fists.

"I imagine you cost more than twenty." Pakku grins, despite his red-rimmed eyes.

Kanna smiles amusedly at her husband. "That wit of hers is worth fifty alone, wouldn't you say?"

"She gets it from you, my love."

Pakku pecks the apple of Kanna's cheek, smacking loudly. Their copious affection has annoyed Katara since she was a child, but now, her eyes water. Their marriage was arranged, once upon a time. It took fifty years and a world of separation, but love found a way through all the frozen walls to warm two hearts.

Maybe that's it—

Maybe, somewhere in the pits of her soul, she believes she'll find the same happiness. From his gifts, Katara has gathered that he's kind and thoughtful. From rumors and words, she's learned that he's endured much for a young man.

A blast sounds overhead, signaling the ship's final approach. The black and gold monstrosity raises a red insignia from its crow's nest, then shudders, stalling in the bay. The water swirls around the hull as benders guide it close to the docks. An anchor drops. The spectators stomping in the snow to keep warm all cheer, waving blue and purple flags.

No, the distant hope of happiness isn't what brought her here. It's them. It's the people who need her protection. Like the prince, she's upholding her end of the bargain.

The treaty may have stopped the destruction wrought by Azulon, but it was the direct result of Fire Lord Iroh's treason. He lost his son, then killed his father in the heartbreak. Hawks were sent to every corner of the earth. Troops were ordered back. A week later, Iroh declared the war's end.

In a bid to show his sincerity, he drafted The Restoration Movement, promising peace and prosperity around the world, reparations to the nations Fire Lord Azulon had demolished. It was set into motion with a betrothal—

 _Katara, the first and only daughter of Hakoda and Kya, Princess of the Southern Water Tribe, is hereby promised to Zuko, the first and only son of Ozai and Ursa, Prince of the Fire Nation._

Katara watches the crowd; then, her gaze flicks to ship, nausea settling in her belly.

Gran-Gran notices her forlorn stare. "Pakku, will you allow me a moment with my granddaughter?"

The old master doesn't seem surprised. He nods politely to his wife, then sweeps Katara into a tight hug. "Just in case I don't have another chance," he whispers, kissing the top of her hair. "Remember your basics, Katara."

She pulls back, trying not to cry. "Adaptability, like a river flowing around rock."

"Ferocity," her teacher continues, "like a storm flooding the land."

"An unwavering stance," they finish together, "like the ocean lapping at the earth."

Pakku lets her go. Katara watches him fade into the crowd, his blue and white coat indiscernible from the rest. She has to make herself breathe.

"Gran-Gran."

"I know, darling." The matriarch takes Katara's hand, and they turn to face the Fire Nation ship and its lowering gangway. After a moment, Gran-Gran purses her lips. "Tell me, Granddaughter, have you considered that the Prince has as little choice in this matter as you?"

"I don't see how," she whispers, petulant. "It's the Fire Nation's treaty."

"It is… but, when it was written, he was a child just like you."

"He's still a prince. Can't he refuse? What man wants a wife he's never met? I could be hideous and he wouldn't even know it." Katara frowns at her grandmother's knowing look.

"He'll consider himself lucky, then, for you are as beautiful as the moon." Kanna squeezes Katara's fingers, then caresses her face. "You're allowed to be frightened, my little tiger-seal. Bearing the weight of the world's atonement will be difficult. _I_ was frightened, and my marriage was not demanded by any treaty, nor did it require me to leave my home."

"At least you grew up with Pakku. I don't know anything about him, Gran-Gran! I don't know his people, his land, his language!"

"I know, but you are of the Water Tribe. You are brave and strong and as powerful as your element."

Cupping Katara's cheeks, Kanna pulls her close, meeting Katara's forehead with a gentle bump and kissing her nose. She savors the moment with her grandmother, this last, still moment, before the chaos breaks loose.

"Remind yourself, Katara, that your future husband carries the same burden as you. Learn to carry it together and you will find happiness in each other."

* * *

Fire Lord Iroh bustles onto shore with far less pomp than Katara expected. There's no meandering palanquin, no bumbling advisors, no scrambling servants, aside from a single interpreter in plain clothes.

The ruler himself wears almost nothing declarative of his status. His furs are a deep, dyed maroon, his boots a plain leather. The toes are brushed by gold trim running the hem of his robes. The only other hint of his wealth— a five-pronged flame upon his head.

She smiles faintly. The rumors of Iroh only splurging on tea must be true. It's a stance Katara can a firmly get behind, but the man coming up the dock behind Iroh diverts her focus.

His crown has only three prongs, but he bows his head like it's heavy. A cloak spills around his shoulders like blood, hiding the black, military uniform he wears beneath. And for all his effort with his eyes on the ground, there's no hiding the flash of gold in them.

He's beautiful, perfectly aristocratic in his stance and his looks, with cut cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. Katara refuses to admit how easy it would be to stare at him. Her refusal is easier when Zuko meets her gaze.

A scar smears from the bridge of his nose through his left eye. It mangles his ear, warps his hairline, distorts his face into a permanent scowl— or maybe that's his expression of choice. It suits him. It suits their situation.

Katara keeps her expression flat and curtsies like a proper lady. She says two of the three Fire Nation words she knows, the syllables silly and wrong on her tongue. "Prince Zuko."

She straightens, and Zuko's eyes hold an amusement that reminds her of one sunny afternoon in Caldera's gardens. She'd barely been nine and her mother had just died. Somehow, the eleven-year-old prince had made her laugh while they played amongst the fire lilies, calling the ladies of the court stupid.

When Zuko takes her hand with a heavily accented, but very near-perfect rendition of the Water Tribe's word for ' _princess,'_ and Katara wonders if she's the stupid one now.

* * *

Her father instructed her to entertain the Prince, but the result of his demand is the pair sitting stiffly on opposing sofas, staring at the fur-covered floor. Hot tea remains untouched; steam floats into the air.

Zuko shifts now and then, crossing his arms and shuffling his feet. Whenever she steals a glance, Katara thinks he's trying to work out something to say.

She should be doing the same. She has a conversational grasp on Trade tongue, and for any phrase she's lacking, the interpreter hovers nearby. Katara remembers her grandmother's wisdom about common ground being important…

But, how can they possibly find any commonality when he's grown up as royalty and her hovel of a home is rebuilding on war reparations? Reparations that will continue as long as she marries him.

Katara frowns in Zuko's direction.

Gold eyes flick up and his lips part, but her soft blues dart away. To the bend of his knees. To the fog on the windows. To the heavy doors hiding her father's office.

Voices drift in and out— Iroh, jovial and joking; Hakoda, stern and stoic. Occasionally, another elder pipes up or Pakku inserts something to represent the Northern interests.

Never her interests. Never Zuko's. Neither of them is mentioned once. Katara wonders how Zuko feels about this. A snide remark about being livestock at an auction rests on the tip of her tongue; maybe he'll agree.

But, probably not. Princes have likely ruled joking beneath them; princes likely think joking is for peasants, and she couldn't sleep for fear of seeming uncivilized.

Katara flubs down in her seat, her frustrated sigh drawing Zuko's attention. This time, he finds his ability to speak.

"Are you… okay?"

He's hesitant, carefully selecting words from the Trade tongue. Raspy, deep notes carry through his voice. He makes the trade language sound rich, his accent barely noticeable. Much less than hers would be, in any case.

The language of the South is like it's people— strong, harsh, unyielding. Adapting to the different styles around the world had proven difficult her. There'd been times during her travels that shopkeepers would liken her to a choking polar dog.

Katara bites her lip, feeling hot. She saw amusement in his eyes before… did her voice make him laugh?

She fights against shame, resolving to stay silent until she can't avoid it, but Zuko tries again.

"You look like you're upset, Princess." Genuine concern flickers through his eyes.

He unwinds his arms for the hundredth time and scoots to the edge of his chosen sofa. His fingers shake as he plops two sugar cubes into a teacup. Is he nervous, too?

Katara watches him stir the tea twice, then Zuko extends it to her in an offering. "Chamomile? My uncle says it can make anything better."

She eyes the cup with surprise at first. She wants to take it and make a joke about how difficult dating is when you've been engaged since the age of nine, but Katara can't bring herself to speak. She swallows loudly.

The interpreter steps in at this point, likely making the same assumption as Zuko, that she's stupid, not stubborn.

"Princess Katara, his highness is offering you a cup of tea."

Katara glances between the paunchy man and the Prince, her brows contorting with disdain. She snaps in her native language. "Do you honestly think a forced marriage is included in that? If I wanted tea, I'd get it myself, _your highness."_

All understanding swoops past him, as the interpreter refuses to repeat, but Katara's biting tone is easy enough to decipher.

Zuko's mouth pinches. A curse— what she assumes to be a curse, based on the guttural growl in his throat— rips from his lips. The teacup returns to the table harder than necessary, rattling in its delicate saucer.

He says something and stands; then the interpreter informs Katara that the Prince is in need of fresh air.

* * *

The sun slipped below the horizon many hours prior, and Katara is finally nestled in the belly of the Fire Lord's ship.

She thinks _finally_ because, while her situation is unsettling, the solitude of her room brings her peace.

The day was full of so many faces, so many words, so many hues of blue and purple that she's expected to leave behind in this land. She'd hugged her grandmother at least a hundred times; letting go after the last has left a nagging ache in her chest.

Katara rubs at her sternum, continuing to unpack with one hand. Idleness always makes pain worse.

As she boarded, she was told the journey to the Fire Nation would take five weeks. Pakku pointed out that was ample time to learn the Prince's language and brush up on her Trade. Gran-Gran swatted him. _Let the girl adjust, you pushy coot!_

She fights tears. She's not one to cry, not usually, but she's alone and lonely. Hot streaks spill past her eyelashes, skating down her cheeks to _drip-drip-drip_ on the cold floor. She wishes for a rug, one she's woven with her grandmother. She wishes for a cookfire, for a hut, for the smell of Pakku's roast duck and complimentary tea blend. She wishes to be anyone else. She wishes to be dead.

Just as the sobs began shaking her body, someone raps on her door.

Katara starts, muffles a hiccup in the tunic she's folding, and stares.

They knock again, louder and insistent. She knows they're not going away, so she shouts, "Just a minute," but the Water Tribe words won't make any sense to whoever's waiting in the hall.

This frustrates her more. Katara throws the tunic down in a fit and marches to the door, ripping it open.

"What?!" She half chokes, half sobs the demand, the lump in her throat making the Trade language sound like a warbling toad.

She blinks, trying to focus—

There's nothing in front of her but the empty hall. Katara swipes at her face, wiping away her tears and hiding her flushed cheeks. As she does, she glimpses white on the floor just in front of her door.

A tray of tea is waiting for her, sending up clouds of sweet-smelling steam.

Katara picks it up. She knows exactly who it's from, but she reads the inscribed note anyway.

 _Princess,_

 _Please don't be angry with me, but chamomile_ will _help you sleep._

 _Zuko_

She smiles, despite herself. Her grandmother _did_ say common ground was important… and Katara can match Zuko's persistence blow for blow. She brushes her thumb over the lettering, wondering if he dictated to their interpreter or if the handwriting is his own, then she turns the card over.

On the back, he's drawn a single fire lily.


End file.
